


This Hollow Full of Fire

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer left holes behind, in both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Hollow Full of Fire

  
Sam feels like he's been struggling upwards his whole life. It's always been upwards, whether it was struggling back to consciousness or to be what he wanted to be, to be what Dean needed him to be. Everything has been about _reaching_.

This feels exactly the same, and a thousand times worse. A thousand times harder.

It feels like a lifetime between one breath and the next. Like Sam's been frozen in time, body still cold and brittle. He doesn't know how you can be numb and over-sensitive at the same time but he's doing a pretty good job of exploring what that feels like right now.

"Sam?" It's soft and too close and he knows that voice, knows it far too well.

He still feels half dead and it's too bright, but Sam knows how to fight well enough to throw a punch anyway. There's a solid, harsh noise of pain and the hand that was resting on his shoulder falls away. Sam doesn't even get halfway to upright, he's falling on his hands, elbows shuddering under his own impossible weight.

Someone's spitting blood into the grass.

Sam forces himself to stop shaking, to drag himself the rest of the way to a sit and the world slowly drifts into focus. The absurd green of the grass under him, the overcast grey of the sky.

The figure in the grass to his right is half curled over. Hand held to his face until the fingers shine red and slippery. He's blinking and wincing, like he's never been punched in the mouth before.

"I deserved that," he says quietly, weakly.

It hits Sam in bright clarity then that this isn't Lucifer.

"You're not him." His voice is a dry, rusty thing, like he left the better part of it in hell.

The man shakes his head, moves his hand and lets the last trail of blood turn the stubble on his jaw dark.

"No," he says, then carefully presses at the cut like he can get it to stop that way.

"You're the vessel."

That gets him a look, head on, and no one could ever mistake that look for one of the devil's. It's confused and guilty and so messily human Sam exhales the breath he didn’t even now he was holding.

"Yes."

Sam waits.

"Nick," he offers when he realises what Sam's waiting for. Sam can't decide if the name suits him or not. If even being a man suits him, he'd spent too long being afraid of that face because it wasn't human. He'd barely thought about the man underneath.

Sam's still too unsteady to pull himself upright, to work out the how and the why of his being on Earth again. What he's doing here, with this man.

Nick moves, fingers a barely-there pressure on Sam's back and Sam tenses up, because the thought of Lucifer touching him makes his skin crawl. It doesn't matter that his head can't tell the difference. Doesn't matter

"You should be dead," Sam says stiffly.

"I should be," Nick agrees, but doesn't offer any more than that.

Sam should be too. He doesn't know why he isn't.

Nick hovers for a moment,

Sam lets him curl an arm round his back and pull him to his feet.

*****

  
There's a diner not far from the cold stretch of grass where Sam came back to the world. A quick search reveals that there's nothing in Nick's pockets but Sam manages to scrape together enough for a sandwich. The shaky smile he offers gets him a free cup of coffee. He's half way through both before he stops shaking like someone that had just been born. For all he knows he was, in some way. It's raw inside his own head, like Lucifer has scratched and clawed him out of shape, left him with scars that aren't his own, little pockets of darkness where something used to be, and now isn't.

Nick sits opposite him, fingers shifting on the wet-looking plastic of the table. His thumb drags and pulls at his wedding wing, and he stares at Sam's coffee without meeting his eyes. Sam figures that's something that belongs to a person. One of those mindless gestures that becomes a habit. There's still a curve of dried blood through his mouth, it's swollen where Sam hit him. He can't bring himself to feel bad about it. But at least he realises that's a little messed up.

"I'm sorry," Nick says finally into the quiet of the diner. It's sudden and raspy, like he's been waiting, trying to think of some way to make it come out right.

Sam wants to snap back that he should be, for everything he did, for everything he set in motion. He drinks his coffee too hot instead of replying. Because who the hell is he to judge. He said yes too, he came so close to dooming the world, thinking he could take on Lucifer by himself. How is he supposed to throw stones?

Nick's forehead is tense, mouth still open. Like he's trying to find words to _explain_ , to make it right. He seems to decide that there aren't any, hands spread open flat on the table instead.

"Your brother, Dean," Nick says at last, tentatively, like he's not sure if he's allowed. Nick's own voice is naturally deeper than Lucifer's, which is a weird disconnect, considering Castiel. It rolls, in a way that's natural rather than thoughtful. The roughness on him is more human.

Sam drinks what's left of his coffee and shakes his head.

"I'm not telling him," Sam says. "This is it, this is the end. He's got to make himself a life that isn't this."

There's nothing on the plate but crumbs. Sam pushes it away, empty coffee cup settled on top of it. He'll go and see him, eventually, he'll make sure Dean's ok, he'll make sure he's doing what Sam asked him to do, letting go of some of the responsibility for once and living for _himself_.

After that -

"Where do you live?" Sam asks, because it's just occurred to him that one of them probably still has a home.

Nick frowns at him, rubs a hand over his face.

"Pike Creek," he says uncertainly, like he thinks the devil might have swallowed it whole when he left.

Sam doesn't know how much of what happened Nick actually saw, how much he knows about everything. Sam saw too much, he felt too much. The inside of his head is an ache that terrifies him because it feels empty now, instead of right.

This is something to concentrate on at least. But Sam's not sure how they're going to get roughly six hundred miles without any cash, or him calling in any favours.

Hitchhiking it is.

Nick's quiet for every mile, a solid shape that stays close enough for Sam to feel how warm he is compared to the devil, but no clue what he's thinking. He doesn't say a word, he leaves Sam to pick a story for every truck they step into. None of the ones that him and Dean ever used, Sam's not willing to stumble his way through an explanation that Nick is his brother. Though Nick doesn’t seem to care either way what imaginary role Sam seems intent to slip him into. Nick doesn't seem to care about anything, like he's still in some sort of strange quiet shock.

They're walking in the rain the next time Sam actually talks to him. The slow fall of it making his words jumbled and wet.

"How did you find me?" he asks, because it's a question that's suddenly occurred to him. "Lucifer left you in that building, miles away from the field."

"That wasn't where I woke up," Nick offers. The rain is flattening his hair to his head, making it dark and sharp, dishevelled in a way that Sam thinks he's getting used to.

He can barely see through his own. Dean's right, he needs a haircut. He was just always too stubborn to admit to it.

*****

  
Nick's house is cold, like no one's lived in it for years. Or like Lucifer leeched all the warmth out of it when he left, hollowed out any sense of home the place had ever had. Sam's not even four feet inside before he feels it.

Nick doesn't seem happy to be home either, he shifts and stares into the dark like he doesn't belong.

"I don't know if there's anything to eat," he admits, then tilts his head upstairs. "I'm going to -" he doesn’t finish, just heads up without looking back.

Sam flicks the kitchen light without much hope. But it blinks on, bright and sharp. It's been months but there's still electricity, even if most of the food has probably gone off. He digs through the cupboards while Nick makes quiet noises upstairs. It doesn't take long to discover that the only thing that's still good is a handful of tins, the pasta and half the cereal.

One of the top shelves is full of baby formula.

Sam stares at it for a long time before shutting the cupboards.

He's hungry enough to think about throwing pasta on without even caring what else he plans to have with it. He's still thinking about it when Nick appears behind him. He's wearing different clothes and that's jarring in a way Sam doesn't know what to do with. It's the final piece, that seems to convince his brain that this _isn't_ Lucifer. The constant low thrum of fear and panic clenching and then relaxing into something exhaustion.

"The shower's upstairs," Nick offers. "If you want."

Sam wants, needs even. Because it doesn't matter how much he remembers, he _knows_ where he went, knows where he's been.

He makes his way up the stairs.

The house isn't meant for one person, and Sam's curious enough to look, curious enough to wander quietly past the rooms on his way to the bathroom. He sees enough to know that there's a wife and a baby missing from this house, to know that they didn't pack up and leave. Their stuff is separated and half boxed up, with care, reluctance, and grief.

Maybe it wasn't Lucifer who left this house empty and cold.

Maybe that was the reason Nick let Lucifer in.

  
*****

  
There are holes in Sam's head, holes that leave him too afraid to sleep, like they're just waiting to be filled in, hungry and gnawing in a way that's wrong. He doesn't think Lucifer can get back in, now he's locked away in hell again. But he can't make himself believe it for sure. Things have a habit in his life of getting worse, not better.

The couch is too short, the neighbourhood too quiet and too dark, he's too tired to think.

The floorboards upstairs creak and he knows Nick's not sleeping either.

  
*****

  
Nick gets the phone reconnected, tries to slip back into his life, to explain where he's been for months. The best explanation, the only explanation that makes sense, is rehab.

People seem to believe it.

When Sam finally finds out what happened to Nick's family he understands why.

Neither of them are getting enough sleep, not as much as they need. Days turn into weeks in a way that feels too easy without the constant supply of research and hunting that Sam's used to. But if anything Sam's more tired now than he's ever been. Exhaustion makes them less careful with each other. It makes Sam angrier, makes him all the things he doesn't want to be, in a way that's honest and hard. He learns that Nick's brittle underneath, all bruises under the skin that Sam can't see. Sam thinks maybe he was broken before Lucifer came along and now there's just charred edges and misery and guilt. Sam knows what the guilt's like. He pushes Nick's when he can't push his own. He pushes until Nick locks himself in the bathroom. He stays in there for long silent stretches that scare the hell out of Sam. That leave him sitting outside the door and apologising, in a way that's messy and so honest by the end he feels like he's bleeding.

They're still not sleeping but it's easier to be miserable insomniacs together, in the semi-darkness of the living room, playing cards, watching whatever DVD is within easy reach, or trawling through the books lined against one wall.

Sam even finds himself cooking at two in the morning when Nick falls asleep on the sofa. It's a wonder the neighbours don't think they're insane.

Hell, maybe they are. Maybe they have a right to be.

They rarely, very rarely, talk about what happened, but when they do it's in half sentences and words that probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It's shame and fear and guilt and they're hard to voice. It feels like Nick needs to punish himself for it. Sam just needs to remember so it can't happen again. But he still hates talking about it, hates remembering it. He hates that it makes him think of Dean. because it's so hard to stay away, so hard.

Three in the morning is when it's hardest. The dark's absolute and morning feels like a lifetime away and Sam's always so damn tired. He knows the house so well he could walk it even with the lamps off. Even though it's Nick's house. Sam walks to the kitchen without turning on a light, tries to decide between beer and water with a lack of enthusiasm for both.

He gets a beer from the fridge, narrows his eyes at the wash of cold air and the quick, bright light. He drinks half of it staring out the window into the darkness. Until he hears the soft press of bare feet behind him.

Nick holds a hand out and Sam hands the bottle over, lets the other man slip it out of his fingers and finish it.

Sam doesn't know when Nick stopped being someone that terrified him and became something familiar, something almost comforting in the way he's used to, all trust and fear and blood. It feels like it happened some time when he wasn't paying attention. And it's been so long since he stayed with someone that wasn't family. Since he was just himself, every raw, broken, mistake-riddled inch of him. Out of everyone, there's only Nick who both knows what it was like and has a right to judge him. But he doesn't.

Which doesn't change the fact that maybe Sam needs to be judged. To be forced to make so many things right, even if he can't remember them all.

And some things are just easier to admit to in the dark.

When the bottle hits the side, Sam presses Nick into the door frame, muscle pushed into the solid edges of wood and kisses him. Nick only fights for a second, one brief moment of stiffness and protest. Then air catches in his throat and he's pressing his fingers into Sam's skin through the thin softness of his t-shirt and pulling him closer. It's angry and hard and Sam thinks that maybe he's wanted this for _weeks_. That maybe he's just been waiting for the opportunity to take it. He's bigger and he's stronger and he could win if he wanted to, though Nick's not objecting to the fury of it anymore. The low steady noise in his throat sounds more like greed, and the rough dig of his fingers is more desperate than kind.

Sam knows that this isn't right. Knows he's _not_ this person. He doesn't just take what he wants, not like this. He pulls away, takes a breath and shifts back until he hits the wall.

"I don't want to be like him." Sam's voice comes out terrified in the dark.

Nick's a solid line of weight against his arm, and it's almost like he's holding him up, though that makes no sense at all.

"You're nothing like him," Nick says at last.

Sam shakes his head and pushes hair out of his face.

Nick pulls at his shoulder, twisting him until weight becomes warmth and he's the one that kisses Sam this time. It's awkward, like he's still not quite sure how this goes. Sam folds a hand round his neck and kisses him back.

This time it isn't angry at all.

  
*****

  
It takes three days for them to move upstairs to the bedroom.

They sleep back to back.

  



End file.
